The Titan of Twilight

by Troy Denning

  Tavis spun around to find Patma’s face glaring at him. The giant’s thin lips twisted into an angry snarl, his silver eyes flashed like lightning, and his sword came arcing down out of the sky. The high scout dived away.

  A terrible screech sounded behind him; then the entire hill shuddered beneath the impact of the giant’s huge weapon. Tavis hit the cold ground rolling and came up on his feet. In his freezing fingers he held a runearrow he did not remember drawing. He turned around and found himself standing beside an enormous steel blade buried deep in the knoll’s stony summit. The birds were as thick as fog around him, and their angry cries drowned out even the rumbling of the thunder.

  Patma jerked his sword free, leaving a smoking crevice where the blade had struck. Tavis fumbled his runearrow onto his bowstring and pointed it at his attacker.

  The piercing shriek of a tarn hawk stabbed Tavis’s ear. Something sharp slammed into his shoulder and dug in. His bowstring slipped from his fingers, and the runearrow arced harmlessly over the hill crest. He toppled onto his side, then slid across the icy ground, wings beating madly about his head, talons tearing at his shoulder.

  Tavis twisted onto his back and brought Mountain Crusher up, hooking the end around the bird’s neck. Its head came down instantly, the beak darting at his eyes. The high scout turned aside, then cried out as the raptor’s powerful mandibles tore into his cheek. He reached up blindly and, when he felt the creature’s nape in his cold grasp, gave a sharp twist. The hawk squawked briefly and fell limp, shrouding the scout’s face beneath its feathery wings.

  “Damn birds!” Tavis pushed the creature off his head. “Surtr’s flames t-take you all!”

  Tavis leapt up and faced the hill crest, expecting to feel a huge sword biting through his shivering midriff at any moment. Instead, he saw Patma’s rust-flecked blade sweeping along the ridge, spraying a cone of hail at the charging firbolgs. So fierce was the icy stream that it swept the burly warriors off their feet and hurled them, bloody and groaning, back down the slope. Even those who eluded the hail were not spared. A fan of silvery sleet trailed from the back edge of the weapon, coating everything it touched beneath a suffocating mantle of blue ice.

  Knowing better than to waste another runearrow, Tavis nocked a normal shaft and fired at the giant’s eyes. A swarm of birds streaked to intercept the missile, startling Patma and temporarily blocking his view. A gray harrier caught the shaft in its breast and careened out of the bevy, and the hail stream veered from its targets.

  That instant was all Munairoe needed. The shaman’s voice rang out from the rear of the firbolg ranks, and a crackling tongue of flame arced up the slope to strike Patma’s sword. The crimson streak sizzled up the weapon’s length. The hail and sleet gave way to a hissing geyser of white steam, then the blade shattered, spraying jagged shards of hot steel in all directions.

  A pattern of bloody stains blossomed across Patma’s white shift, and a dozen firbolgs clutched at their faces and went down. Something hissed past Tavis’s head. He reached up and discovered blood trickling down his neck. His ear had been sliced open by a steel shard he had not even seen.

  Several of Raeyadfourne’s warriors thundered past Tavis, hurling themselves off the hill crest at Patma. Their axes struck his chest with a series of wet-sounding thuds. The storm giant blasted the ridge with a ferocious bellow of pain. He toppled out of sight with three firbolg axes lodged in his chest, the warriors still dangling from the handles. All four combatants tumbled down the rocky scarp in a clamorous maelstrom of crashing bodies and shouting voices.

  Raeyadfourne rushed past with the rest of the Meadowhome firbolgs, and Basil stopped at Tavis’s side.

  “Look at you! You’re covered in blood again,” the runecaster panted. “You can’t take much of this. Munairoe said—”

  “I know what M-Munairoe sssaid,” the high scout stuttered. “But Brianna’s d-down there.”

  Tavis charged over the summit in time to see the Meadowhome firbolgs swarming Patma. Only the storm giant’s wildly flailing limbs were visible, for he had fallen beneath the veil of wind-driven snow at the base of the scarp. The high scout bounded down the rocky face, stealing glances at the rest of the battlefield as he bounced between outcroppings.

  At the eastern end of the meadow, the furtive fomorians were nowhere in sight. But the giant Eusebius was swinging his blade back and forth through the ground blizzard, flinging gore in all directions. At the western end of the field, the battle looked to be bloody on both sides. One of the storm giants had fallen to his knees with several verbeeg spears in his midriff, but the other was standing his ground against Orisino’s orderly ranks, cleaving through his foes’ waists two and three at a time.

  By the time Tavis reached the bottom of the scarp, Patma’s limbs had disappeared beneath the ground blizzard. A thick cloud of birds wheeled over the body, crying mournful songs and raking at the firbolgs’ heads. The high scout skirted the fringe of the crowd. He was just tall enough to see over the curtain of blowing snow. Directly ahead, Anastes remained at his station in front of the queen’s tower. The storm giant’s eyes were melancholy and resigned, but he held his rust-flecked sword in one hand and a crackling ball of lightning in the other.

  As Tavis started toward the center of the meadow, the snow suddenly avalanched from the flanks of the little drumlin behind the queen’s tower. A long aquiline nose emerged from beneath the white blanket, followed by a wiry, square-cropped beard and the rest of Lanaxis’s head. His crown sat upon his pate, cocked forward and lopsided, with a few wisps of coarse white hair poking out from beneath the band. His face was shriveled and white with age. A crossbow bolt had pinned shut one of his haggard eyes, which was now inflamed and oozing infection.

  The titan gathered his feet beneath him and stood, voicing a deep, soul-drained groan that made him seem as old and weary as the mountains.

  Raeyadfourne caught up to Tavis. “Wait! We need to regroup!” he yelled. “We cannot—”

  “I can! Take your tribe and go!” Tavis shoved Raeyadfourne toward the eastern side of the tower. “Circle around there—and if you reach Brianna first, remember your promise!”

  Tavis circled in the opposite direction, plowing through waist-deep snow at his best sprint. He happened upon Sebastion’s corpse and scrambled onto the body, startling hundreds of birds from their roosts. Seven quick paces took him the cadaver’s length. When he jumped back into the deep snow, the birds followed, assailing him with angry screeches and raking talons.

  A deafening volley of thunder rolled across the field. Tavis glanced eastward. Anastes stood no more fifty paces away, looming above the ground blizzard like Stronmaus himself. The storm giant was hurling lightning bolts down upon the firbolgs’ heads and shoulders, the only parts of the Meadowhome warriors that showed above the whistling curtain of snow.

  Tavis turned directly toward the queen’s tower. Lanaxis stood beside the battered structure, peering over the top to survey the battlefield. The high scout continued to rush forward, unconcerned about being seen. The titan’s good eye was looking the other direction.

  Tavis had closed to within twenty paces of the tower when a black spire eagle swooped low over his head and turned toward the titan. The bird voiced its shrill cry, drawing Lanaxis’s attention at once. The titan’s gaze lingered a moment on the reeling birds above the high scout’s head, then seemed to pierce the feathery cloud and fall directly on Tavis’s face.

  He stopped and drew a runearrow from his quiver. The titan simply looked away, then knelt in the snow and wrapped his arms around the queen’s tower.

  Tavis nocked his arrow. The spire eagle appeared before his face, talons extended to strike. The scout leapt sideways and loosed his shaft, then tumbled backward as the raptor slammed into his shoulder.

  “esiwsi—”

  The eagle sank its beak into Tavis’s gullet, and they dropped into the snow together. The high scout released his bow and twisted toward his attacker, at the same time dra
wing his belt dagger. The raptor tore a hunk of flesh from Tavis’s neck. He drove his knife deep into the bird’s feathery breast, drawing a startled squawk and a last, feeble peck at his face.

  “Damn damn damn birds!”

  Tavis leapt up and turned toward the center of the meadow. Lanaxis had already risen to his full height and was cradling the queen’s tower in the crook of his elbow. The runearrow was lodged in the shoulder of the same arm, but if the titan noticed it, he showed no sign. He was already limping away from the battle.

  Tavis started to utter the command word that would detonate the runearrow, then realized how far the building would drop if he blew the arm off. A cold, sick ache more painful than any wound filled his body, for he knew better than to think his wife and child would emerge alive from the rubble. He stood motionless in the snow, torn between the futile impulse to stumble after them and the wiser decision to turn back and help his allies regroup.

  Basil’s hand grasped his shoulder. “You’re as mad as Memnor!” the runecaster puffed. “Attacking the titan alone!”

  “He’s weak during the day,” Tavis croaked. The effort of speaking pained his savaged throat, but he barely noticed. “I almost had him.”

  Basil cocked an eyebrow. “I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t.” The verbeeg retrieved Tavis’s bow from beside the dead spire eagle. “But we have other problems at the moment. Ror has betrayed us all.”

  The runecaster pointed Mountain Crusher across the blowing snow, toward the eastern end of the meadow. It took Tavis a moment to find what concerned Basil, then he saw them: a long line of hulking shapes in the forest beyond the village, slipping through the trees as quietly as thieves. In the lead was a massive figure with a potbelly and spindly legs.

  “Ror!” Tavis exclaimed. “He’s chasing Lanaxis!”

  “And leaving the firbolgs to the storm giants,” Basil said. “Look.”

  Tavis turned his gaze back across the field. Raeyadfourne and his warriors were forming ranks to charge Anastes in mass, completely oblivious to the huge figure rising over the hilltop behind them.

  It was Eusebius.

  Tavis grabbed his bow and plowed through the snow, shouting and gesturing as he ran. The thundering storm drowned out his voice, and the Meadowhome warriors were too intent on their charge to notice his waving arms. Balls of lightning filled Eusebius’s hands. He began to hurl the bolts into firbolg’s rear ranks, but they were too determined to notice the attack from behind.

  Raeyadfourne himself led the first rank into the fray, flinging his axe into Anastes’s midriff. The storm giant bellowed and stumbled, then his great sword came down, reducing the chieftain and three more warriors to a crimson spray.

  Behind the firbolg column, Eusebius hurled his last lightning bolt, then drew his sword and descended the scarp in two strides.

  Tavis drew a common arrow from his quiver. He had one more runearrow left, but he could not use it without also detonating the one in Lanaxis’s shoulder. He stopped and nocked the shaft.

  Eusebius stepped away from the hill and was upon his quarry. Tavis fired his arrow, aiming low so that it would skim the heads of the last two ranks of Meadowhome warriors. A flurry of birds flashed down to intercept the shaft, but the bustle caused several firbolgs to duck and look over their shoulders.

  Eusebius’s sword came down, slicing through the last rank from one end to the other.

  An alarmed cry rose from those who had seen the attack, and the rear ranks slowly wheeled around to face their menace. Munairoe’s voice briefly lifted above the clamor, beseeching the aid of the fire spirits. A fountain of molten rock erupted beneath Eusebius, drawing a long and agonized wail.

  With his legs still flaming, Eusebius stepped out of the fiery column and swung his mighty sword. Munairoe fell with five warriors at his back. Then Eusebius and Anastes, each as bloody and battered as the other, hacked their way toward one another, hewing firbolgs as though they were harvesting hay.

  Tavis nocked another shaft, then heard Basil’s heavy breath at his back. The high scout turned to his panting friend and presented the tip of his arrow to the runecaster.

  “I need magic!” Tavis said. “Something to keep the birds off!”

  “No time … for anything powerful.” Basil pulled a runebrush from his cloak and traced a quick pattern on the arrowhead.

  A tremendous crash shook the field, and Tavis glanced back to see a shroud of birds settling over Eusebius’s fallen body. Anastes stumbled another step forward and brought his sword down, cleaving his comrade’s killer down the center. The last three firbolgs, Galgadayle among them, buried their axes in the storm giant’s leg. His knee buckled with a loud crackle, then he dropped into the snow with a long, mournful groan.

  “Done!” Basil reported.

  Tavis brought his bow around and fired. The arrow streaked away, a great plume of red smoke roiling from its tip. The birds dived after the missile and disappeared into the crimson cloud, then emerged on the other side disoriented and hardly able to fly. The shaft reached Anastes unimpeded. He twitched slightly as it planted itself in his ribs, then struck a glancing blow off the heads of Galgadayle’s companions. Both firbolgs collapsed with crushed skulls.

  Basil yelled an arcane command word, and a spout of green flame shot from Anastes’s arrow wound. The storm giant roared in surprise and glanced down to look at the hole.

  Galgadayle stepped forward to attack, throwing all his weight into the blow. The seer’s axe bit deep, splitting the giant’s chest cleanly down the sternum.

  As if by instinct, Anastes’s hand rose and closed around the seer. A long rasping gurgle sounded from the storm giant’s throat, then the howling wind fell silent and the blowing snow settled over the meadow.

  Tavis drew his bowstring with no conscious memory of having nocked the arrow between his fingers. It was not the runearrow.

  “Stop!” Tavis’s voice cracked as though he were lying. He could probably finish the storm giant with a common arrow, but not quickly enough to save Galgadayle. “Let that warrior go!”

  Anastes looked at Tavis, his face grave with the unfathomable weight of his race’s ancient remorse. For several moments, they stared at each other more in pity than menace or anger.

  Finally, Tavis lowered Mountain Crusher and took the arrow off his bowstring. “The battle is done,” Tavis said. “I see no more sense in killing.”

  “Nor I. What will be will be.”

  The storm giant lowered his hand and released Galgadayle, then closed his eyes. A warm, wailing wind rose out of the south. The air pulsed with the beat of a hundred thousand wings and the sky dimmed beneath a myriad of feathers.

  Anastes gasped, “The matter is entirely out of my hands.”

  13

  Cuthbert Pass

  Brianna cringed as Avner pushed against the loose stone. The young scout sat on the smoke shelf just above the fireplace damper, using his feet to shove the heavy block out of its niche in the chimney wall. He had already scraped the mortar from the joints, but the block moved slowly, grinding against the stones around it and filling the murky chamber with a loud, harsh grating.

  “Quietly!” Brianna urged.

  “We don’t have time to be quiet,” Avner retorted. “Whatever Lanaxis is doing, I’ll wager it has to do with twilight. He’ll be on his way again as soon as dark falls, and us with him if we’re still here.”

  It was late afternoon, the day of the battle between the giant-kin and the storm giants. Brianna had crawled down the chimney into the tower’s first-floor chamber, where all manner of weapons had been knocked from their racks and scattered across the floor during the rough journey northward. The room’s only outlet, aside from the chimney flue, was a doorway that had once opened into the internal passages of Wynn Keep’s thick walls. Now, the portal was covered by a twinkling curtain of purple gloom, as were the sally port, the arrow loops on the second floor, and all of the tower’s other exits. Lanaxis had used his magic to draw the
dark screens over the openings shortly before twilight, when he had suddenly stopped and set the tower down. Brianna and Avner had no way to look outside and so did not know where their captor was presently. But a minute earlier they had felt the floor shuddering, presumably as the titan walked away.

  The grating in the fireplace ceased, and the stone fell free with a muffled clack. A brief rustle sounded in the flue as Avner rearranged himself, then a puff of icy wind rolled out of the fireplace. The young scout stuck his head down beneath the lintel.

  “Now’s the time, Brianna.” As Avner spoke, little black clouds billowed from his soot-packed beard. “I’d say we still have twenty minutes before dark.”

  Brianna passed Avner a waterskin filled with her milk and a rope they had found in the room’s debris. Then she pressed her lips to Kaedlaw’s brow and held them there for a long time.

  At last, Avner said, “Majesty, I’m not fond of this plan of yours, but if it’s going to work, we’d better be on our way.”

  Brianna nodded, then looked into Kaedlaw’s round face. “Good luck, my son. I love you—both of you.” With tears in her eyes, she passed the child to Avner, then touched the young scout’s soot-covered face. “And arrow’s speed to you, my defender. Watch over my child.”

  “With my life,” Avner assured her. “I’ll see you at Wind Keep.”

  “Don’t wait. That’s not my purpose.”

  “I know,” the young scout replied. “But you’ll fool him. Hiatea will help you.”

  Avner withdrew onto the smoke shelf, pulling Kaedlaw out of the queen’s sight.

  Brianna tried to stop crying for a moment, then gave up and went to the side of the fireplace. She removed a rock from the mouth of a tin ewer and thrust her hand inside, grabbing a terrified rat Avner had caught for her. The rodent tried to bite her and squirm free as she pulled it from the pitcher, but the queen had it by the back of the neck. It was helpless in her grasp. She removed Hiatea’s amulet from her neck and took a tress of Kaedlaw’s coarse hair from her pocket, then pressed them both to the creature’s chest.